At 9:55 PM, inside the Dodge Hellcat, Danny dialed his father Frank Reagan's number from the passenger seat.
"Dad, we seriously need some proper backup. There are too many of them. Even if the entire family came, including Grandpa, we couldn't possibly surround them."
He and Jack had followed Frank's orders to secretly tail Malevsky and had tracked the "Blue Templar" gathering to a private billiards club.
To avoid being detected by their target, who undoubtedly had sharp professional instincts, Jack had refrained from using direct visual surveillance. Instead, they followed at a distance of 500 or so meters, relying on the FBI-monitored GPS in Malevsky's car. When Malevsky began to slow down to park, Jack closed the distance to observe. They watched as two men exited Malevsky's car, meeting two others from a second vehicle. Each of the four carried a heavy duffel bag as they entered the club.
Danny, having heard his father reject Jack's earlier suggestion to deploy an FBI SWAT team, grew anxious. In his view, an operation to root out traitors like this required strict internal secrecy. But where was his father going to find reinforcements?
Jack, however, remained calm. Danny was simply overthinking things. Frank Reagan wasn't some figurehead parachuted into his position; he had climbed the NYPD ladder step by step. It was impossible for him not to have his own trusted network.
Having a few rotten apples among his subordinates was nothing extraordinary, and Frank had faced far greater challenges in his life. As a senior leader during 9/11, he had experienced crises far worse than this.
Though Jack wasn't intimately familiar with NYPD dynamics, he knew that within the LAPD, there were at least a dozen "police fraternities" akin to the "Blue Templar."
Of course, none had likely dared to assassinate the commissioner's son. However, based on the intercepted recording, it was evident that Joey Reagan's death hadn't been premeditated.
Jack's theory leaned toward the idea that Joey's undercover work had been too successful, leading the "Blue Templar" to fully trust him as one of their own. They likely brought him along for an operation similar to the recent ambushes against drug dealers.
What happened during that operation wasn't hard to guess. Joey was probably pressured to kill a drug dealer himself as a loyalty test, a "blood initiation." He likely hesitated or outright refused, blowing his cover in the process.
This was exactly why Jack despised undercover work. To gain trust, you had to sink to the same level as the criminals. But even if you succeeded, you'd face psychological scars—and worse, legal consequences for breaking the law yourself.
Ten minutes after Danny hung up, two police armored vehicles with their lights off appeared at the intersection. Black SUVs, almost ghost-like, emerged from hidden corners, quietly filling the street in moments.
"Uh… it's ESU," Danny murmured, his mouth slightly open as he watched squad after squad of heavily armed Emergency Service Unit officers step out of the vehicles. Dressed in black tactical gear with military helmets, they looked more like soldiers than cops.
The two men exited their car just as a black Suburban pulled up in front of them. The passenger door opened, and a high-ranking officer with graying hair and a sharp suit stepped out to respectfully open the rear door.
Jack didn't recognize the officer but had seen his face on TV countless times. He was one of NYPD's assistant commissioners. The only person who could command such deference was, of course, Frank Reagan.
Frank stepped out of the Suburban, clad in a black overcoat over his suit and tie. His expression was impassive as he strode purposefully toward the billiards club, leading the charge.
Danny and Jack quickened their pace to follow, keeping close behind the commissioner. Joining them were Hannah, Jubal, and James Reagan. Meanwhile, 50-plus ESU officers in hard-shell ballistic vests formed two tactical lines, flanking the group on either side with their rifles at the ready.
The dim streetlights cast long shadows as the group advanced. The street was eerily silent except for the faint metallic clicks of firearms being loaded and the rhythmic crunch of boots on pavement.
Now this is what a boss's entrance should look like, Jack thought, mentally adding an iconic John Woo movie soundtrack to the scene.
Frank stopped at the club's entrance, hands in his coat pockets, and slightly tilted his head. One ESU squad moved past him, encircling the building, while another squad took positions at the front and rear doors, ready to breach on command.
"Danny, Jack, it's your show now," Frank said calmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.
This might have been the easiest breach Jack had ever participated in. Inside the club, loud music drowned out all other sounds, and everyone had gathered in the largest billiards room.
On the pool table were four duffel bags, stuffed to the brim with tightly stacked bundles of hundred-dollar bills wrapped in plastic. Sonny Malevsky stood at the center of the room, surrounded by a jubilant group as they divided the spoils.
"Freeze! Hands up!"
"Don't move! Don't move!"
"Go! Go! Go!"
"Stay where you are! Don't even think about it!"
The ESU officers burst through the doors, their deafening shouts cutting through the blaring music like a cold bucket of water dumped over the heads of every dirty cop present.
"You all know the drill! Keep your hands where I can see them! Don't even think about being stupid! I'll send every last one of you to meet God if you so much as flinch!"
Danny took the lead, with James following closely behind. ESU officers flowed into the room like a tide, quickly surrounding everyone.
With a sharp yank, Jack unplugged the audio cable connected to the sound system, silencing the music instantly.
"Face the table! Hands flat on the surface! Now!" Danny barked, grabbing one detective by the collar and glaring into his guilty, downcast eyes before shoving him forward.
The room fell silent. Under the watchful eyes of dozens of loaded rifles, the dirty cops complied without resistance. They bent over the table, placing their hands flat on its surface, fully aware of the consequences of making even the slightest wrong move.
Jack scanned the room. All twelve names on the list were present and accounted for.
Frank entered the room, his hands still in his coat pockets. He moved at an unhurried pace, his expression grim and commanding. His gaze swept over each face, his fury growing with every familiar person he recognized.
When his eyes landed on Internal Affairs Deputy Captain Alex Bello, they burned with quiet rage. "Alex, to be honest, I didn't expect you to be among them," Frank said coldly.
Alex Bello, his hands already cuffed behind his back by James, raised his head with a defiant smirk. Or perhaps it was the look of someone who had nothing left to lose. "Every story needs a villain hiding in plain sight, doesn't it, Frank?"
"Don't flatter yourself," Frank replied with disdain, his tone dripping with contempt. He dismissed Bello with a glance, as if he were nothing more than a clown, and stepped closer to the group.
"Before I strip you all of your badges, I have one question that needs answering," Frank declared.
The black cops remained silent, heads bowed and eyes averted. A few even let out low, pitiful sobs.
Frank's gaze turned icy as he surveyed the scene. He already knew what he needed to ask, and the smarter ones likely guessed as well.
When his piercing eyes returned to Bello, the previously defiant man dropped his gaze, sneaking a glance at the pool table.
"Which one of you killed my son?" Frank's voice was steady but laden with rage and grief, his words striking like a hammer.
The crooked officers bent even lower, their silence deafening. But several pairs of eyes involuntarily darted toward Sonny Malevsky.
Frank's eyes glistened briefly as he turned toward the bar. In one swift motion, he swept bottles and glasses off the counter, sending them crashing to the floor. The shattering glass startled the black cops, making them flinch.
With his back to the room, no one could see Frank's expression. His voice, however, was calm, almost eerily so, yet brimming with barely restrained fury and pain. "I'll ask one last time: who shot my son?"
The room remained still until Malevsky, seeing the others' accusing glances, let out a bitter laugh. Slowly, he raised his hands from the table and straightened up, turning to face Frank and the rest of the Reagan family.
"I'll say this much: Joey wasn't blindsided. I gave him plenty of chances. I told him over and over—if he just pulled the trigger and killed those two dealers, we could pretend none of it ever happened.
But you Reagans… you're all the same. Joey was stubborn. Danny's stubborn. Even your youngest, Jimmy, isn't any different, is he?"
Malevsky took a step toward the center of the room, his hands raised in mock surrender. His tone carried a trace of self-deprecating humor as he addressed the Reagan men.
"I'm sorry, but I want to make it clear—this wasn't personal. I had nothing against Joey."
Danny, seething with fury, clenched his teeth so hard the muscles in his jaw visibly tightened. His outstretched gun trembled with barely controlled anger. "This *is
personal, you piece of garbage," he spat.
Frank, his expression unreadable, began walking toward Malevsky with deliberate steps, his pace slow but unyielding.
Malevsky, sensing the suffocating pressure radiating from Frank, suddenly dropped his hands. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out his service weapon.
"Don't move!"
"Sonny, don't do it!"
As Alex Bello shouted in alarm and Danny tightened his aim, Jack's Glock was already halfway through its trigger pull. But then he froze.
Malevsky wasn't aiming at Frank—or anyone else. He pointed the barrel of his gun under his own chin.
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